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“You have any unpaid debts, Mr. Carter?”
“No.”
“I’m not talking MasterCard. A bookie, maybe? Loan—”
“No.”
“Any enemies? Been in any arguments lately? Got on anybody’s fighting side? Know of any grudges against you?”
“No.”
He looked Dent up and down as though unconvinced of that, but, discouraged by Dent’s scowl, he didn’t press it. He began directing questions to Gall while Dent joined the insurance adjuster, who’d arrived shortly after the deputy.
Stiff, starched, and buttoned up, the kind of corporate team player Dent despised, the adjuster asked a lot of questions, most of which Dent thought were unnecessary or stupid. He made a lot of notes, took a lot of pictures, and filled out a lot of forms, which he snapped into his briefcase with annoying efficiency but not one word of commiseration.
“They’ll cheat me,” Dent said to Gall as the guy drove away. “You watch.”
“Well, I’ll hike up the cost of parts and repairs, so it’ll even out.”
Dent smiled grimly, grateful that he had at least one ally who understood how deeply this affected him, and not only financially. He didn’t have a wife or kids, not even a pet. The airplane was his baby, the love of his life.
“Go over her with a fine-toothed comb. I’ll check back later for the prognosis.”
He headed for his car but Gall stopped him. “Hold your horses. Come into the office for a minute.”
“What for?”
“You haven’t had your coffee yet.”
“How can you tell?”
Gall just snorted and ambled toward the cubicle, motioning with his arm for Dent to follow. He was eager to get away but knew that Gall felt bad about the flimsy padlock. He could spare him a few minutes.
He filled a chipped and stained mug with the industrial-strength brew, carried it into the office, and took a seat in the chair facing the desk, being mindful of its unreliable back leg.
“I know what you told the deputy,” Gall said. “Now tell me if you have any idea who did this.” He was avoiding eye contact and tugging on his long earlobe, a sure sign that he was leaving something left unsaid.
“What’s on your mind?”
Gall unwrapped a fresh cigar and anchored it in the corner of his mouth. “Before I left my house this morning, I saw her on TV. Early, early show. They said it was a prerecorded interview.”
Dent didn’t say anything.
“The book she wrote… Low Pressure?”
“Yeah.”
The older man sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
Dent sipped his coffee.
Gall shifted his cigar around, then said, “I didn’t know anything about it, or I never would’ve scheduled that charter. You know that, don’t you?”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Gall. I would have found out about the book sooner or later. In fact she said she didn’t know how I’d missed hearing about it.”
“Nice of you to let me off the hook,” the older man said, “but I could kick myself into next month for not hanging up on her when she called me wanting to book a flight with you.” After a pause, he asked, “You read the damn thing?”
“Most of it. Skimmed the rest.”
